Getting the Lieutenant Colonel to write about this chapter of her life was not easy, even though it was in many ways as pivotal a moment as her commission, not to mention the significant historical importance.
She offered a great many reasons for her reluctance; that it wasn't relevant (despite it covering the opening stages of one of the largest conflicts of the era), it was not flattered (no honest biography is), and that there might be legal consequences (I have been ensured by two lawyers the statute of limitations is long past for all potential criminal charges). Her talent for devising insurmountable obstacles is nearly admirable.
Thus defeated, she instead turned the full powers of her scrupulousness to throwing away perfectly serviceable drafts, a habit which continued until the Missus threatened to write
her perspective on events. I am pleased to report this worked where all my efforts failed, and a good thing too. The representatives from the publishing houses were beginning to ask rather pointed questions.
Sergeant Miriam Page
Editor
I couldn't hear it, there was no air for the sound to propagate through, but I could
feel it. Reverberating through the ground, like an earthquake. Somewhere on our right, there was a massive plume of regolith thrown upward, rendered as an almost perfect half-sphere in the vacuum. A moment later, a wash of static crackled in my ear, and then a voice.
"Good
Christ, what was that?"
I turned to see my counterpart from A Section, Lieutenant Miles Beckham, holding a hand to shield his eyes. Behind his glass helmet, I could see the sweep of messy strawberry blond hair and the perpetual scruff, his glasses gleaming against the sunlight. Despite the fact he was no more than five feet from me, his voice came through distorted and warped from the wireless. I squeezed the switch on my collar to open the channel.
"Mortar of some kind, I think," I replied. "Landed amongst the 28th, must have skimmed under their shield."
"Poor buggers," Miles replied, shaking his head. "Think that'll be them moving?"
"I'll go take a look," I said, taking a step back. Our view forward was obscured by a solid wall of soldiers in red coats and tall shakos, their muskets held at the ready and their radiator panels jutting out like sails, and it looked like I'd have to walk a fair distance to get to a gap in the line.
Instead, I squared up as best I could and
jumped. In the reduced gravity and airless void, I shot straight up, maybe fifteen feet or so, holding weightless at the apex for long seconds.
The blasted moonscape unfolded ahead of me, rolling hills and craters of sharp grey, almost white in places touched by the sun and utterly black in the shadow. I could see our skirmishers a few hundred feet ahead, bounding in long, floaty strides across the landscape, their coats shifting back to grey to match the surroundings whenever they stopped moving.
I could see three pillars of dust getting closer over the edge of a steep dip in the ground.
Gravity, fighting valiantly against my push, reasserted itself, and I began to descend slowly. As I did, there were flashes against the twinkling lights above, our rocket artillery opening up behind us; their flames turned to simple points of red light in the vacuum. They sailed over our heads, their exhausts making the stars dance and twinkle, and winked out in the distance as their motors ran dry. A second later, there were many overlapping bursts high above the ground, intercepted by a mobile screen.
I landed softly back down to earth, dust billowing around me, feeling a slight twinge of pain in my knee. Another officer had joined Miles next to me, Captain Elenora Murray, who looked at me quizzically from behind her helmet.
"Well?" she asked, clearly a little amused by my unorthodox little flight.
"They're coming," I reported. "Three groups, it looks like, with shields covering at least one that I saw. Couldn't see them directly."
"About time. Best get to your sections. Good luck, everyone," she replied, and we parted, walking to our appointed places in the line. I fell in at B-section's flank, the far end of the 7th Regiment of Foot's formation, where the ensigns and our senior sergeant were waiting. As usual, Ensign Kelly was being a nuisance, hunting up and down the line for a gap he could see the action through. By contrast, Ensign Sumner was looking up at the stars, lost in thought.
"Ensign?" I asked, switching to the section channel with the twist of a dial.
"Wondering how high I'd go if I jumped like that," she replied. I gestured permissively, and she tensed and launched herself, maybe ten feet straight up, flailing a bit in the air before descending and stumbling.
Ensigns.
I waved the two of them to their positions and took mine next to the senior sergeant, who gave me a slight nod and shuffled to make some room so our rad-packs wouldn't clatter together. We couldn't speak; she didn't have a wireless, but she signed
your screens. Wincing, I hastily thumbed the activation key on my gorget, the protective field of teal sparks leaping into existence. She unslung her weapon, a long wood-handled rifle, and switched on the capacitors, a soft yellow glow emitting from the chamber.
Glancing down the line, I saw a sword flicker to light, quickly picked up and copied by the blades of other officers in the regiment. I drew my sabre and did the same, twisting the signal selector and depressing the trigger. We were advancing two hundred paces, it seemed: somebody upstairs had gotten the lay of the enemy attack and wanted us shifted.
Ahead of us, the section began moving, pushing forward as one with heavy steel footfalls, a few stumbling against the loose ground and low gravity. There was a particular way of walking in these conditions, and you had to relearn it for every surface and every gravity. It got more manageable with time, but some of these boxies were less than four months into service.
With the unit moving, I finally got onto the flank and got a good view again. There were blue flashes ahead, muskets trading back and forth, our skirmishers and theirs. Looking down the line, far to our left, I could see the rumbling shapes of heavy cavalry, the 5th Dragoon Guards, swinging out long for the flanks, presumably to meet their opposite number invisible somewhere far off. Their enormous footfalls threw massive clouds of dust behind them which hung like storm clouds.
And in the distance, I finally caught sight of the enemy. They were just hazy shapes, but I could see them divided into four groups about thirty abreast. From the look of the smoke behind them, more troops followed in a similar formation. It looked like they were coming right for us.
I clicked back to the company channel.
"Looks like they're coming at us the same old way," I commented.
"They never learn, it seems," the Captain agreed. "We'll be holding at the edge of the crater there. Make sure your rotaries-"
She was drowned out at that moment by an enormous wash of static, and I looked up to see lights erupting against our company force screen, dozens of shells bursting in crackling blue sparks against our force screens. Beside me, Sergeant Theda shook her head in disbelief, the glowing screens of her eyes flickering as they simulated blinking with each flash. Not that we had to, but it was humanising.
Waste of shells, she signed. It did seem like it. Firing at these distances was just to probe for gaps in the enemy screens; you didn't waste a bombardment against the surface. They must have thought so too, because the bombardment tapered off. Ash from the burst shells filtering through the screens like black snow.
Glancing back, the shield wagon and its massive dreadnought-wheeled horse were still plodding forward, keeping pace. Finally, we counted out our last steps, halting quite near a sizable impact crater, the wagon slowing to a stop.
Then there were impacts, more rolling flashes of light against the screen, and it didn't stop this time.
The bursts came furiously, so many they seemed to overlap, so many I started to be able to hear it as pops of ionised gases washed over my microphones. It must have carried on for the better part of two minutes, impact after impact, and I turned to see the wagon rocking with each hit, the generator sparking and rocking.
Then the emitters died, and the force screen gave out.
I had only about a moment to process this before the first shield landed in our position in a bright blue flash, spraying up dirt all around. Two more before the cloud had cleared, and I found myself sprawling, feeling rattled and dizzy from the nearby impacts. More flashed up and down our line, machines dropping heavily, and I simply lay as flat as I could against the regolith. I felt the momentary pressure waves batter at my radiator pack, digging into my back with each impact. Every time I thought it was over, another shell would burst nearby with clockwork precision.
Finally, in a gap in the shelling, I scrambled to my feet, pulling a handkerchief from my jacket to try desperately to clear the regolith from my cameras. Beside me, the line was reforming, as best as it could, but there were ragged holes in it now. Red-coated bodies were strewn across the ground all over, some lying still and others stirring weakly.
I estimated we were down perhaps a third of our number, though other companies closer to the centre looked even worse off. Casting around, I was relieved to see both our ensigns still on their feet, Kelly emerging from behind a Theo who had shielded him with his body, and Sumner miraculously untouched among a dozen downed soldiers.
I looked back out to the battlefield to try and get our bearings, spotting several of our skirmishers pulling back toward our position, harassed by their enemy counterparts. Their foes were fast, running with unnaturally long strides across the field, their carbines flashing. Sergeant Theda pulled up beside me, levelled her rifle, and fired, leaving one of their sprinting skirmishers stumbling into the dirt and scattering the others.
Beyond them, the main force approached. They were maybe just a thousand feet away now, moving swiftly at a fast march. They wore bulky grey hats, dark blue coats, and brilliant white crossbelts, and they seemed untouched by the dirt and grime that stuck to everything. The ones in front were particularly physically imposing, taller and broader. Even across the field, their red epaulettes and trim stood out.
At the head of the unit was a colours party, a gaggle of musicians with drums beating silently, each impact accompanied by a flash of light. Front and centre was a machine with a small tricolour flag, the pole a silvery metal and running with wires. Atop was a golden symbol, an eagle, and the entire assembly was haloed in white light.
As they closed, the light shifted to a blood-red, and all down the line, the French bayonets ignited.
I flicked my sword's signal to
make ready and pushed into the line proper, trying to encourage Theos and Doras into position. The line formed around me, bristling with muskets barrels, and I flicked my sword to the angry red of
fire and held it aloft, waiting for the perfect moment.
The enemy did not slow.
At seventy paces, I ordered the first volley, swinging my sword down decisively, and the moonscape lit up with pulses of blue light. Our targets disappeared behind a cloying haze of smoke, only the light of their eagle still visible. Machines rushed to feed more coolant into the guns, the thermodynamics of the void merciless, and fired another volley blind through the mist of the first.
The shots flickered against an invisible barrier perhaps twenty feet ahead of their line, the glow from the eagle intensifying. They had a force screen, covering the whole column. Some shots punched through, especially at the weakened flanks, and shadows there stumbled and fell, but others took their place instantly.
They were perhaps thirty feet away when they fired their first and only volley. The screen dispersed it, but despite that, it tore through our ragged line with ease. Ensign Kelly, momentarily exposed by a falling machine, was struck by multiple shots, and he slumped over, his screens overwhelmed. My own screens sparked violently, and the machine beside me pitched onto his face. By instinct, I stepped into his place, and signalled to ignite bayonets.
They began to sprint toward us, overtaking their colours, and we got off one last volley while they were unprotected. Each shot struck home and took down a grenadier with it, but they still hit us hard, bayonets crossing and clashing, machines pushing against one another. All of it utterly silent in the void.
I hit the Dora coming at me with a blast from my pistol, and the one following stumbled over her into my sword, but I couldn't even get my blade back into a guard before the next bayonet drove at me. It swerved away at the last moment as Theda threw herself bodily into the French soldier, her captured alien axe coming down like a thunderbolt.
I had no idea what was happening outside of our tiny area, I couldn't even see A-Section, but I knew if we gave ground, they'd open our flank up, and that would be it for the entire formation. Their regulars joined the fray now, shooting point-blank into the combat as they moved in. I felt a moment of pride as Ensign Sumner cut down a machine before he could bring his bayonet up, but there were far too many, and soon she was obscured by the press of blue coats and glowing bayonets.
There were maybe a dozen of us now, stumbling back against the rocks, but we'd given them hell. A grenadier sergeant came at me with a polearm of some description, the glowing blade glancing off my arm, but I caught him in the hand as he approached and then took him at the legs with the backswing. Drawing back into a defensive stance, I looked for my next target, and that's when I spotted her.
She was tall, willow-thin for a Dora, her long blue coat in blue and white perfectly fitted and trimmed in gold. Across her chest were five gleaming medals in gold and silver and dancing gems. The tails of her coat billowed in the non-existence wind, swaying with her hips. Her face was not steel, but instead a fine white glass, lips and cheeks picked out in carefully airbrushed pink, bright blue eyes projecting seamlessly onto its surface, her expression fixed in a half-smile.
Her eyes met mine, and she levelled a long, elegant straight sword, held in an elegant white glove. Clearly an invitation to a duel.
The ready light on my pistol turned blue, and I blasted her in the chest.
Her screens dissipated the blast, but they caused her to stumble a moment. It was a moment I used to close on her and swing as hard as I could for her shoulder. Her sword flashed in the way, a blind guard, and our blades clashed, their energies roiling and snapping in contrast. I kicked for her knee, trying to wrest some kind of advantage. She stepped away, swiping an inch from my eyes, and I was forced to give ground in turn.
She nodded approvingly, then stepped in for another attack, a driving thrust I only just managed to batter aside. She didn't hesitate a moment, stepping into another attack, dancing out of reach every time I tried to respond, taller than me, faster than me. I brought my pistol up at my hip, careful to keep it out of her range, and she swung her sword across the path of the blast and dispersed it in a flash of sparks.
I was giving ground as fast as possible, casting about for Theda, but soon I realised that I was alone. Everyone else was down. I stumbled over a body, came up covered in dust and gripping a fistful of clingy regolith, and I threw it for her cameras as I closed. She staggered, drawing her cuff across her face, and I finally had a moment I could seize on. I pushed forward; blade raised to strike.
With a jolt of pain, my knee buckled and gave way, and I collapsed heavily in a clatter of radiator patterns. I tried to push myself to my feet, struggling with the loose soil, but any weight on my leg just made it worse. My opponent stepped back in front of me, her screens now clear, and I tried to raise my blade into some kind of guard.
She gave a sympathetic shake of her head, then ran me through.
"That could have gone better."
"Fusie, if you wield your sword like you wield understatement, you'd have carried the day single-handed," Miles complained, unlatching his helmet and running a hand through his hair. He instantly regretted it, just caking his scalp with lunar dust. "This
bloody stuff…"
"We're never going to live this down, you know." Captain Murry said simply, slumping against the side of the airlock. "Biggest war games of the decade, and we crumpled like a tin can. The Colonel's probably going to get an earful from General Andromeda."
"It's not just us. The 28th got it bad too, and the 35th got forced into square without their screens and they worked them over with the cannons. At least the Dragoons put on a decent showing." Major Gaynesford said, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. "Too little too late, I'm afraid, but it was something. What happened to you, Lieutenant?"
"My, um, knee joint gave out," I explained, trying not to look like I was leaning too heavily on my crutch. "Nothing too bad."
"Bad luck," he replied sympathetically.
In the centre of the airlock, Colonel Harrison, the 7th's commanding officer, stood up to get our attention. He looked rather embarrassed.
"My apologies to your house staff, but you'll all be needed for dinner tonight, so get your uniforms cleaned first thing," he said, glancing around the room at the dirt-encrusted officers. "And do try to be good sports at dinner, will you? Won't do to be sore losers."
"We'll always have Waterloo over them, after all!" An officer, some young lieutenant I didn't recognise, called out.
"Yes, do try not to bring that up either," Harrison chided. "They're our guests, after all."
"Right, keep that sort of talk about allies behind their back, it's only polite," Lieutenant Turner muttered beside me, and I did my best not to break into laughter.
We stumbled back out into the cold air of Antares City, and suddenly I found myself wishing for a return to the void rather than face the bitterly cold December wind. We made the short trip from the airlock tunnels to the base, grumbling among ourselves and comparing our experiences, comparing tactics and trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong.
Miles was a bit sore about having been knocked out by a stunning shell and complained that they'd overestimated the effects against our shields, while the ensigns were chattering loudly about how exciting it had all been and how they'd all met their inglorious ends. Darley had been disarmed and captured at bayonetpoint, while Brodeway had been pinned under a fallen Theo. My broken knee got a great deal of sympathy, which felt somewhat undeserved.
As I always did after void exercises, I snuck around to the rear door of Number 18. Miriam was at the door before I could even knock, my housecoat in one hand and a bucket of rags in the other, looking distinctly unamused.
"So what happened to you, exactly?" she asked pointedly.
"Knee joint wore through's all," I explained, pulling off my coat, and she beckoned me inside quickly, shivering against the cold. "You alright?"
They didn't design us for winters," she replied, shutting the door quickly. "This is, of course, the joint you've been complaining about for the past two months? The one you assured me you'd get replaced?"
"Knee joints wear through all the time, especially for Fusiliers," I responded, cagey. It was true, though; even for regular machines yearly replacements were the norm. For machines like myself, it was closer to half that.
"Mhm, they do," she replied, looking utterly unimpressed. "You need these cleaned for dinner?"
"Yes, sorry. Bit of a rush." She chuckled at my uncertainty.
"You need to stop feeling bad about creating work for your staff, it's what they're built for," she said, for what felt like the thousandth time. "How'd you do personally, anyway?"
"My entire section got wiped out," I said. "To a machine. Not even the ensigns made it out."
"Well, you'll have to work on that before your next deployment, that's for certain. I heard the French have machine officers, is that true?"
"I suppose it is, given one of them had me beat handily," I admitted. "I've never fought anyone like her, it was astonishing. I didn't stand a chance."
"Hum." Miriam paused, clearing thinking hard about something. I didn't like the look in her eyes. "Well, I wonder if she'll be at dinner. Maybe you could ask her for some tips?"
"Perhaps." I was nervous and excited by the possibility in equal measure; I'd never gotten to speak to another machine officer, not really,
(1) outside of briefly encountering Captain Fusilier at a function in Starhall. Still, that wasn't the same; he'd spent the last sixty years in a procurement office doing paperwork, the lucky bastard.
"It'll almost certainly be good for you. If nothing else, you need a friend who has shared some of your experiences," Miriam said, dumping my uniform in the laundry room for the Abbys. I headed to my study, dabbing at my face with one of the rags from the bucket, Miriam close behind.
"I have friends," I said defensively. "Miles and April surely count."
"Of course, Miss, but one is a housemaid, and the other a human," Miriam clarified.
I sat down at my desk, leaning back against the plush leather chair, as Miriam disappeared through the door. She was right, as she was with infuriating regularity; neither of my friends really understood fully what I was experiencing. There was, I suspected, vanishingly few in the galaxy who might.
Already itching for something to do, I plucked my pen from my charger just to have something to do with my hands and cast over the desk for incomplete paperwork. Finding nothing, I began absently practising my signature on a blank page, trying to get all the curls just right. Officers signed a lot of documents, it was important I do it right.
Not a minute later, I became aware of Miriam's return when she set to work with the rags, clearing the regolith from my neck and shoulders, humming happily to herself. For all the hardship of void operations, I did take some heart in how they tended to cheer Miriam up. I was quite aware that I never managed to give her enough to do.
The household utility machine, Thomas, arrived at the door a few minutes later with a toolbox in hand. I hadn't called for him, so clearly Miriam had. A bit reluctantly, I shuffled up the cuff of my trousers until my knee joint was visible and propped it up on a chair, and he sat on the floor with an impact wrench and began removing bolts.
"You know, not normally part of my job description, ma'am," he joked, laying the parts out on the ground carefully as he removed them. "'Fraid I haven't got the exact piece you need, but we can substitute a regular pin just fine."
"I wasn't going to ask, but..." I responded, and Miriam cut me off.
"I will not have you attend the mess on a crutch like a Dickensian orphan, miss," she said sharply, throwing the last of the rags in a bucket. "Before you protest, this isn't just for your sake. Your bearing reflects on us as a staff, you know."
"O-of course," I said. "I just didn't want to cause any trouble. How much do I owe you?"
"Ma'am, my job is keeping the machines in this house running. Don't say nothin' about if one of the machines is an officer, does it?" he responded. The plate on the outside of my knee came off, accompanied by a sort of numb sensation. He reached in with a pair of pliers and had soon fished out two pieces of a hexagonal pin, the break showing the multiple layers of metal and ceramic. "Blimey. Clean in half, look at that!"
"How much for the replacement part, then, I should at least cover that…"
"Oh, don't you worry, I write these off all the time," he said, slotting a new pin in place. This one was a dull, near-white aluminium, almost certainly just bar stock with the ends machined into sprockets. "You can get them three for a sixpence."
Automatically, I reached across my desk to the small wallet I kept my spare change in, retrieving two pennies.
//It is not shameful to accept help when it is offered.
Still, it didn't feel right not to at least offer to pay for it, right?
"Oh, come now, ma'am. Army won't miss it," he said softly, and reluctantly I dropped the coins back into my purse. "Now as I said, I only have a lighter duty joint, so this is a temporary fix. Get yourself to the company engineer tomorrow and get it replaced proper."
"Of course," I replied.
---
I met Miles outside the mess, waiting with Lieutenant Turner, their greatcoats pulled close against the January cold.
"Stars, Fusie, you took your bloody time," Miles complained, waving me over.
"How fast would you have recovered from a broken knee, then?" I teased. I was usually
early, and I was certainly never late. "You could have gone in, you know."
"Absolutely not. I need a Fusilier to hide behind so I don't have to talk to anyone," he said casually. "Come on."
I was used to the officer's mess being a fairly quiet space, half-empty with various elements of the regiment away in piecemeal deployments to monitoring stations or mining colonies. The majority of the tables were empty every night.
Tonight, however, we played host to not only the vast majority of our own officers, not only our usual guests from the Royal Artillery, not
only the members of the 28th, 35th, 60th, 71st, the 5th Royal Dragoons, but six regiments worth of French officers. A room that usually had no more than twenty-five humans in it now had two hundred.
To make things worse, every other officer had their aide on-hand to translate for them.
My first impression of it was just pure
noise, and it took me more than a few seconds to make sense of the field and figure out where I was supposed to be going. I spotted Captain Murray among a group of officers, ours and theirs, and we made a beeline for her for lack of anything else to do. I couldn't see her Maria, so it appeared the Captain spoke decent French.
"
Oh, excellent. My subordinates, Lieutenants Miles Beckham and Dora Fusilier, and Lieutenant Turner from 6th Company." Murray said, then she leaned over to us and indicated to each in turn. "Captain Estelle Couvreur, Junior Lieutenant Jacquinot, I didn't catch his first name, and our man from the Dragoons there is Lieutenant Reginald Risewell."
We made our introductions and niceties as best we could over the din and took our seats, and the Captain continued her story, which seemed to be from the aftermath of the Battle of llomia J3H. She was saying something about radiation treatments from my rather reckless use of transmutation shells, and Lieutenant Risewell at least was listening with rapt attention.
The two French officers, however, were staring at me rather obviously. As I usually did in these circumstances, I just kept my eyes down, looked at my hands, trying not to let it get to me. I was glad that the overlapping babble of voices would obscure the sound of my fans spinning up.
I was doing an unusual thing. People would always be acclimatising to it. They didn't mean anything by it. It ought not get to me…
"I know, the scars, right?" Miles interjected, nudging my arm. "It's a miracle she functions at all, you know."
I glanced back up to see the two officers conspicuously looking away now, listening to one of their aides as he translated, presumably. I did a double-take as I realised the aide wasn't a valet, but instead was a clerk, a little bespectacled Simon in a blue uniform. How odd.
I very deliberately didn't stare, though. I'd been through that enough.
"
So you are the machine lieutenant we've heard about?" Captain Couvreur said. Feeling rather on the spot, it was all I could do to nod. "
It's good to see them recognize talent from the ranks like this. Hopefully they'll draw more from the ranks in the future?"
"
Oh, well, I don't think so. I purchased my commission, you see," I said, feeling a bit slighted by the implication. I wasn't sure they'd understand, given how things seemed to work over there, but the thought of being promoted up to a commission felt deeply wrong. NCOs were promoted, but officers volunteered, put their money and life on the line to contribute to the service. They were different sorts of responsibilities, ones that simple experience hadn't prepared me for. "
There's never been a rule against it. It simply doesn't happen much."
"
Oh." Couvreur responded flatly, the wind taken out of her sails by that.
"
You didn't earn it?" Junior Lieutenant Jacquinot asked, back to staring. He was young, maybe eighteen at the outside, more like an ensign than a lieutenant to my eye.
"
Come now, of course she did. She put in decades of service to earn it," Murray intervened, throwing a sympathetic glance in my direction.
"
This business of buying commissions is very strange to me, I'll admit. I'm surprised you stuck by it for so long," Couvreur said, her mouth drawn into a little frown.
"
There's been modifications made-" Murray began, starting in about the 1843 and 2010 reforms, then Couvreur began talking about their own system as Miles leaned in to whisper.
"... I haven't the foggiest what any of them are talking about," he asked, Turner chuckling in the background. "Fill me in?"
"They're discussing promotion and commissions in our armies. In their army, the machines in the ranks hold elections to select new officers from among their own ranks and human cadets," I explained.
"... that seems damned near sensible, why don't we do that?" he said, a look of utter shock on his face.
"You'd think you'd get your commission on that system, Miles?" Turner asked, and Miles shook his head.
"Of course not, this system would
work," he retorted. I laughed, though he really wasn't being fair to himself. He was a fine officer.
"I'd certainly not, that's for sure." That was fine. Soldiers shouldn't be
electing officers, that felt mad to me. Soldiers didn't have the same priorities as commanders. That seemed so inherently evident to me that I couldn't fathom how they thought otherwise.
I wanted to cut in and say that, defend the honour of a system that had served the British Army well for more than four centuries, but the words died on my speaker. I'd have to interrupt somebody to say it.
Soon after, a machine came by with drinks, and I secured my customary empty glass for the toasts to come. Lieutenant Colonel Harrison ran us through an exhaustive list of toasts, General Andromeda and her French counterpart both gave a short speech, and finally, dinner began properly.
Dinner was always awkward, considering I didn't
eat, but I'd very much worked out the pace of the ordeal. Dinner came with polite conversation, so all I had to do was be available and willing to talk while not accidentally monopolising the discussion by the advantage of not having to shovel calories into my speaker. There was some inevitable second-hand discomfort among onlookers from the fact I had nothing to do with my hands while waiting to talk, but I'd yet to figure out a solution to that.
Things proceeded quite pleasantly from that point. I was sitting directly opposite of Lieutenant Risewell, and he seemed remarkably considerate. He was clearly a bit disconcerted by my presence, but he was doing a good job not showing it. We soon struck up a conversation about our previous deployments, the usual fare between officers. My sojourn through the gateway was an inevitable topic, though he plainly noticed I was sick of talking about it and, mercifully, Miles came to the rescue with tales of the battle itself and the gruelling aftermath.
"I heard you got worked over pretty good by those Stalkers," Risewell said. "A bit of a bad spot, heavy casualties?"
"It's not as bad as the papers say," I dismissed. "Whenever signal lights go back their reporters write it up as if every downed machine is scrap and every wounded officer is crippled for life." Miriam had told me they do it to sell papers, because '100 machines downed, 95 returned to service within the week' is not nearly as dramatic. "We've mostly bounced back, we're just short some replacements."
"I do think it's starting to get to poor Percy,"
(2) Miles said quietly, glancing across the mess to our fellow officer. His third of a section made a sorry sight on the parade grounds each morning. "It sure does take a while to build a Fusilier, doesn't it?"
"Eighteen months from start to finish is what they used to tell me when I was a boxie. Sergeant Theo would remind us every time we did something daft. 'Don't you know how long it'd take to replace you! Don't you know how expensive you were?!'"
"Surely they're not making them to order!" Risewell protested.
"Of course not. It's damn irregular; I've not seen it take more than two or three weeks before," Miles said.
"Maybe it's the new tech making things take longer?" I speculated, though I didn't believe it. Fusiliers hadn't changed that much.
"What about you, Risewell? I've heard the cavalry gets some choice postings," Miles deflected deftly, mercifully pulling the conversation away from our losses.
"Well, I've not yet seen any action, I'm afraid. A lot of very coreward deployments, but no combat yet," he explained. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but I'm hoping I don't have nearly as exciting a time as you did!"
"Might be hard for a dragoon," I pointed out. "I got to ride a repulsor horse on the other side of the gateway; I was never even in combat in it, but even then it was exhilarating!"
"Well, you know, we don't exactly drive repulsors. That's for Hussars and Light Dragoons. We're a bit slower," he explained. "But still, we'll make seventy miles an hour on roads, maybe fifty five on flat fields."
"That's not nothing!" I said, trying to imagine what it must be like, facing down a company of six-ton horses tearing across a field at those speeds. "Certainly worked against our French counterparts, I hear?"
"We got lucky, caught them at the bottom of a hill. Gravity did a lot of work. Just wish we'd have redeployed fast enough," he said.
"Better than we did. We were completely overrun, they just walked through us." I gestured to try and convey the movement of forces involved. "Ended up duelling one of their machine officers, oddly enough."
"Oh, that is Théa, I think! She is the same regiment as I," Lieutenant Jacquinot said, leaning into the conversation. His English was heavily accented and stilted but still quite comprehensible. "She has been, um, she is sixty-fourteen years a lieutenant. Seventy! Seventy-four years."
"
She hasn't been promoted?" I asked, and he laughed.
"
She is happy where she is. If she went higher, she would fight less!" he explained cheerfully. I took a moment to lean back and look around the tables for her, but while I could see plenty of dark blue coats in officer's cuts, I couldn't see any machines wearing them.
"
Do you know where she's sitting? I'd like to talk to her," I asked, and he looked at me as though I'd grown a second head.
"
She's not here. Why would she come to dinner with us?" he said, shaking his head. "
I don't understand why you are here either, for that matter."
"
I'm an officer, it's the officer's mess. It's where I socialise with my peers," I said, and he waved that off.
"
Peers? Officers can coordinate well enough while on duty, but this is a space for humans, you know?" He spoke with a tone that clearly conveyed that he meant no offence, and indeed that he couldn't imagine it being offensive. Something so obvious it should have gone without saying.
"
This is a space for officers," I said flatly, trying not to let it get to me. It was not easy.
"
Well, that's the problem. In France, these things are not one and the same." he said, "
Once more like you make the jump, you'll figure that out."
I didn't know what to say to that. Feeling somewhat defeated, I broke eye contact, looking around the room anxiously, wishing suddenly to be anywhere else. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it was one I hadn't felt this intensely in this space in months, and I was not pleased at its return.
My cameras cast around for something familiar, safe. There, nearly blending in with the darker blue uniforms of the French officers she was talking to, was Lieutenant Diana Kennedy, laughing at a joke as her aide translated for her.
I looked away before she could spot me—neither familiar nor safe.
---
The moment we judged it would be polite to do so, we left, Miles inviting Turner, Risewell, and myself back to his place for drinks and an escape from the crowded atmosphere. I was so incredibly grateful to be out of there, away from the noise, Frenchmen, and past mistakes.
We were greeted at the door of Number 22 by his valet, who went by Jim and who was, in every way, perfectly suited to the job of being Miles' servant. He was just as casual, laid back, and relaxed as my friend, to the point where it made me sometimes wonder if there was some mysterious force pairing officers with Jameses and Marias who exactly met their needs, or if this was in some ways an act.
(3)
Miles had, from somewhere, acquired a set of the comfiest, rattiest furniture I'd ever seen, more suited to the backrooms of a servant's area than anyone's sitting room. Jim was back in a moment, setting a tray of bottles on the side table before setting a music player going, a simple rhythm low enough for conversion.
Sometimes I felt a bit strange, spending so much of my time with Miles and his friends, this all-male environment. I'd simply not connected to many of my feminine peers: they had… an affect I presumed came from their upbringing that I had never experienced. While I always felt profoundly out of place, it didn't feel as pronounced around Miles and his friends.
I thought perhaps it was some lingering influence of the military as a historically masculine pursuit affecting my mindset, even though it had been centuries since that was true. Or maybe there was something wrong with me, maybe it was the shame I should feel from how I treated Lieutenant Kennedy. Maybe I was just a coward.
//Nothing is gained from being cruel to myself.
Then again, a lot of my former peers in the ranks were far more feminine than I ever was, so perhaps I was just a bit queer.
In any case, Miles was just about the only human who really,
truly treated me like a peer. Yes, he constantly said mildly insulting things, but I'd long figured out that he considered that to be expressions of affection. Turner was a bit more stilted and quieter, but he'd never said a thing wrong to me either. And this Risewell fellow seemed nice enough.
Miles uncorked his beer, and the sound was like a starting gun for conversation, almost.
"The fucking
French," Turner immediately said, and there as a chorus of agreement all around.
"Smug bastards, the lot of them," Risewell agreed.
"We need a rematch. We can't let them get away with this," Miles said, "Right?"
"Absolutely. It's their bloody
screens, absolutely unfair," I added, "Basically cheating. And that
artillery."
"We need hussars next time. Somebody to get in their artillery park," Risewell agreed. "And... the things he said to you, Fusilier, I'm almost surprised you didn't take a swing at that Jacquinot fellow."
"I could never!" I protested, and Miles shook his head affectionately.
"I know you can't, but I may consider doing it on your behalf. What'd he say?" he asked, and Risewell recounted the incident, putting on the best worst French accent I'd ever heard.
"... or something like that. My frog's a bit rusty," he concluded.
"Jesus
Christ, what a prick," Turner muttered.
"I'm definitely breaking his nose next I see him," Miles said simply.
"I'll hold his arms," Turner added.
"You are
not. Stop it, both of you." I said. "It's just… frustrating. Plus, it means I didn't even get to talk to any of their machine officers."
"Like that one who beat you?" Miles suggested mischievously. "Can't imagine why you'd want to talk to her…"
"I.... listen you!" I protested, to the laughter of my friends. Risewell raised a curious eyebrow, and to my horror Miles beat me to any kind of explanation.
"Our dear Dora's programming tends to break down around beautiful women, you see…"
"Well, that's relatable," Risewell said, taking another swig of his beer. "Though I'm grateful I'm finally getting another deployment after this, I've been fending off the women my parents have been shovelling my way. A lot of them are
quite lovely, but the way it's done, it's almost… mechanical. No offence."
"None… taken? I'm not sure what you mean," I said. I had no idea about human courtship other than a very strong conviction to
stay away, for both our sake's.
"Of course not, Fusie, let me explain," Miles said, "I was just dealing with the start of that when I pissed my father off. The moment you're old enough to start thinking about what you want to do with your life, your parents come to you like, here lad, here's a list of women ranked from most to least socially acceptable, pick one quick, and do try not to ruin your life with the wrong choice. Like
fuck off."
"Right? I've told them I'm handling my correspondence on it myself after I get back from my deployment. Honestly, I doubt I'll even go home after," Risewell said, sounding utterly exhausted. "My family has a ski resort near the south pole they keep forgetting about. I figure I'll hold up there and maybe invite a girl or two, you know? Something without the damned pressure."
"Plus, cold place, a lady might want somebody to keep her warm," Miles joked.
"... I will not say that is not a part of my motivation," Risewell confirmed, to smiles all around.
I knew that humans weren't supposed to get intimately involved with one another outside of marriage, but I wasn't a boxie, I knew they
did. Just wasn't sure exactly
how that happened, if they had servants charged with chaperon duties hovering around all the time. Then again… thinking about it even for a moment, I was absolutely certain that Miriam would not only tolerate it under the right circumstances but lie to her charge's parents about it if it was warranted.
(4)
"So there you are, Fusie. Human romances are a tedious, joyless procedure. Like dental surgery," Miles said.
"I'm engaged." Turner added simply, and Miles' glum, cynical expression immediately vanished as he turned, drowning out Risewell's congratulations with a near-shout.
"You're
what? I… good God man, when were you planning on telling me?" Miles asked, and he shrugged.
"Still, um, getting used to it myself, old chap. Kind of a spur of the moment thing." Indeed, he sounded a bit shell-shocked. "Nobody's more surprised than me, I think."
"I think I'll disagree, I didn't even know you were seeing anyone," Miles said, "Who's the unlucky lady?"
Turner smoothly made an obscene gesture without pausing as he finished off his bottle.
"Her name is Kara, she's lovely. We ran into each other in the park and just... hit it off, I suppose." Turner explained, leaning against the edge of his chair with a wistful expression on his face.
"When'd all this happen?" Miles asked, sounding suspicious.
"Last month. We've been meeting up in the evening-"
"
That's where you've been?" Miles exclaimed. "I didn't hear a word of this!"
"Haven't really told anyone yet. Her parents don't know yet either." he said, "I dunno, it's not a secret or anything, it was just a private little thing."
"So who is she, where's she from? Good family?" Risewell asked.
"She's, um, Polish. Kara Grynberg. Her English isn't that strong, but it's much better than my Polish or Yiddish, so, you know, she's brilliant. I… I proposed to her on Monday, and we've been trying to figure out how to tell her parents."
"I don't know what to say, old boy, except congratulations. I didn't see it coming." Miles said. "How about your folks, they know?"
"Not yet, I'm sure they'll be fine. They'll probably just be ecstatic that I found somebody at all, I had them worried I think. I doubt any of the details will bother them," he summarised, leaning back in the chair so far he was almost sinking into it. "She's lovely, Miles, if she had circuits you'd be smitten."
"Sorry?" I asked, but I was drowned out by Miles announcing that this called for a celebration. As if summoned, Jim arrived with some harder drinks, bottles of brown liquid and small glasses. I took the opportunity to lean over to the music player and turn it up a little.
Miles, assisted by a confused but enthusiastic Risewell, interrogated Turner about his sudden engagement. Not really having anything to say, I let the music carry me away, the sting of today's humiliating defeat and frustrating conversations muted by a pleasant buzz.
"- you're ridiculous, man, but seriously, my congratulations to the both of you." Miles finished, settling back with his drink. "Just don't go retiring and leave me alone with this tin can for the rest of my career."
"Love you too, Miles," I muttered.
"You're safe for now, don't you worry," Turner assured him. "Course, what if Fusie does the same?"
"What, retire? Machines don't retire," I said, laughing at the absurdity of it. "Nor do we get married."
"Really? There's a couple on my parent's staff, it's actually kind of sweet," Risewell said.
"Well, not
never, I guess," I said. A few Theos and Doras were married to machines in the city too, but it had always struck me as somewhat absurd. "We probably shouldn't, I think, is the thing. We've got a commitment to our job first and foremost. It's not something we'd do if we weren't imitating you lot, I think."
"You've got the right idea, if you ask me." Miles added. "Sounds a lot more pleasant."
"I don't believe you're that cynical, Miles. You're putting up a front," I said. "The right girl comes along, I'm sure you'll change your tune."
"Oh, I'm certain I will, I'm nothing if not a hypocrite," he said flippantly, sipping from his glass. Whatever it was, it was strong enough that even
he winced a little. "But until then, I've got nothing to my name but a father who's probably warned every family in the sector about me. Not worth the trouble."
"Say, Fusie, whatever happened to that tailor you brought to the ball, anyway?" Turner asked, and I sighed.
"She… well, she thought I'd died, left the city. Miriam got in contact with her again after we returned from Starhall, but she says she doesn't want to… to reopen old wounds."
The music must have been hitting me pretty hard, because it felt like the bottom fell out of the world as I said those words.
"Oh Christ, I'm sorry, I hadn't realised," Turner muttered, looking down into his drink.
"... you know, this'll sound awful of me, but I never thought of… all that," Risewell added, clearly drunk enough that the potential impact of his words were well beyond him. "Sorry, just, it always felt like machines were just… playing at relationships? Like small children do, you know?"
"I understand what you mean, but I'm afraid not," I said simply. "It's just that we're good at moving on. Maybe a bit too good, if you understand. Sometimes."
I probably
should have moved on, but my deprogrammer had made it clear to me that I needed to stop dismissing feelings so reflexively. I'd done it so often I'd lost the ability to deal with my problems in any other way. So instead, here I was three months on, pining for somebody who probably never thought about me anymore. It probably wasn't better, but at least I wasn't just shoving the feelings away and pretending they didn't exist.
"My apologies, that probably came out poorly. I'm a bit out of my depths," he said quietly, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. "Beckham… um, Miles, is there any more of this…"
"I think? Jim?" he called, then slumped back in his chair. "You've not seen anyone else?"
"I've been on a few… it's just messy," I said, leaning a little closer to the music player as I talked. "Nobody knows how to act around me, it's… I saw this girl two weeks ago, uh, a messenger, you know? Cute as a button, but it was so awkward…"
"What's the matter?"
I contemplated how to answer that for a few long seconds, my mind sluggish.
"Well… it's just…. they, t-they treat me like
one of you." I managed, stumbling over my words as the emotions poured out. "They can't see me as just a machine anymore, because I'm an officer. I'm like… some kind of mythical creature. It's not doable. There's a fucked up… thing. A power thing."
"Oh hell," Miles muttered.
"Compared to them, I have money and authority and… and… fancy clothes. I have a
servant. A
Maria! Like… to machines, Marias are like… p-
princesses." I tripped over that word in particular. "They're royalty; they're special because they… they work right for humans, talk to them every day. And one of them
works for me, so w-what does that make me?"
I reached out to turn up the music, but Jim was there ahead of me, hand on the dial. Couldn't hear me, of course, but he nodded sadly as he turned it down. A bit embarrassed, Turner put down his half-finished drink, and Miles leaned forward across the table at me.
"Fusie, you okay?" he whispered.
"I dunno. I guess," I concluded. "It's just… fucked up. I'm not one of you, but I'm not one of them. What am I?"
"Right now, very drunk," Miles said, swaying a little where he sat. "Which I get."
He looked up and tapped his ear, and the music clicked off. On the other side of the room, Risewell and Turner were getting up, and I felt a sudden shame that I'd brought things to an end. I can't remember saying anything to that effect, but I did remember Turner reassuring me that it was late enough that they ought to get going anyway.
Miles went to the door to see them out, then returned and sat heavily in the chair. Jim was there with a glass of water, but then to my surprise, he sat down too.
"What do you need right now, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking to me. I struggled to think of an answer, not sure what to say.
"... I think I need to go home," I managed eventually, and Jim moved to get my coat, but I kept talking. "Miles, have… have you talked to Lieutenant Kennedy, since…"
"Diana?" he said, looking at me funny. "Why?"
"... I dunno," I said, the words feeling like a mistake the moment I heard her name. "I don't."
I hadn't told him, or anyone, what had happened between us on the other side of the gate. What hadn't happened. The way we'd been too ashamed and awkward to even interact afterward, the horrible gulf between her heartbreak and my… absence. Instead of trying to meet her at an emotional level, I'd just crushed everything I'd felt, discarded the genuine friendship and care I had for her, and
bludgeoned her with it.
Absent the survival pressure on the other side of the gateway, we'd simply drifted apart, and I was left with a feeling I didn't know the shape of. A hole where the proper emotions should be, just a vague shame, a sense something was gone that I ought to miss dearly.
"... did something happen between you two?" he asked, and I shook my head reflexively. If nothing else, I had to protect her, I did all this to
protect her, but I never had a good poker face. Miles read me like an open book. "Oh. That… explains a few things, doesn't it."
"We didn't do anything. We didn't. We didn't," I protested, and he waved a hand dismissively.
"If you're worried about me judging her, or you, trust me, I haven't a bloody leg to stand on."
"N-no, you don't understand. We didn't, and, and she wanted-" I started, then stopped, suddenly gripped by terror. I ought not be affected by this, a proper machine wouldn't, I ought to feel nothing,
ought-
Miles shifted over from his side of the table to sit beside me, silent. Unsure exactly what I was doing, I leaned against my friend, my head against his shoulder, and just sat in the moment a while. He wrapped a hand around me, and I realised I'd never been hugged, comforted like this. The only close physical contact I'd ever had was fighting and fucking, never just… this. I never knew what I was missing.
I leaned into him a bit more and finally felt myself relax.
"... Christ, you're heavy," Miles muttered.
- This wasn't entirely true. She had met a machine captain of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary, but I can see how she might not consider him a real officer.
- 3rd Company A Section under then-Lieutenant Percival Ellsworth was the first to break through the stalker line at llomia J3H; they received a point-blank volley of grapeshot for their trouble, which rendered 90% of the unit inoperable.
- I suspect it is simply that if you build a machine specialised for empathy, this is an inevitability. Before I met the Lieutenant, I knew little about army history or affairs beyond appreciating the structure it brought to my life. I regret to say I now have strong opinions about battles which occurred well before I was built.
- I am disappointed that she thinks so little and accurately of me.
